_Deme._ Good Horace, no; my cheekes doe blush for thine, As often as thou speakst so, where one true |2020| And nobly-vertuous spirit, for thy best part Loues thee, I wish one ten, euen from my heart. I make account I put vp as deepe share In any good mans loue, which thy worth earnes, As thou thy selfe; we enuy not to see, |2025| Thy friends with Bayes to crowne thy Poesie. No, heere the gall lyes, we that know what stuffe Thy verie heart is made of; know the stalke On which thy learning growes, and can giue life To thy (once dying) basenes; yet must we |2030| Dance Antickes on your Paper. _Hor._ Fannius. _Cri._ This makes vs angry, but not enuious, No, were thy warpt soule, put in a new molde, Ide weare thee as a Iewell set in golde. |2035| _Sir Vau._ And Iewels Master Horace, must be hang’d you know. _Tuc._ Good Pagans, well said, they haue sowed vp that broken seame-rent lye of thine, that Demetrius is out at Elbowes, and Crispinus is falne out with Sattin heere, they haue; but bloate-herring dost heare? |2040| _Hor._ Yes honour’d Captaine, I haue eares at will. _Tuc._ Ist not better be out at Elbowes, then to bee a bond-slaue, and to goe all in Parchment as thou dost? _Horace._ Parchment Captaine? tis Perpetuana I assure you. _Tuc._ My Perpetuall pantaloone true, but tis waxt ouer; th’art |2045| made out of Wax; thou must answere for this one day; thy Muse is a hagler, and weares cloathes vpon best-be-trust: th’art great in some bodies books for this, thou knowst where; thou wouldst bee out at Elbowes, and out at heeles too, but that thou layest about thee with a Bill for this, a Bill-- |2050| _Ho._ I confesse Capten, I followed this suite hard. _Tuc._ I know thou didst, and therefore whilst we haue Hiren heere, speake my little dish-washers, a verdit Pisse-kitchins. _Omnes._ Blancket. _Sir Vau._ Holde I pray, holde, by Sesu I haue put vpon my |2055| heade, a fine deuice, to make you laugh, tis not your fooles Cap Master Horace, which you couer’d your Poetasters in, but a fine tricke, ha, ha, is iumbling in my braine. _Tuc._ Ile beate out thy braines, my whorson hansome dwarfe, but ile haue it out of thee. |2060| _Omnes._ What is it good Sir Vaughan? _Sir Vau._ To conclude, tis after this manners, because Ma. Horace is ambition, and does conspire to bee more hye and tall, as God a mightie made him, wee’ll carry his terrible person to Court, and there before his Masestie Dub, or what you call it, |2065| dip his Muse in some licour, and christen him, or dye him, into collours of a Poet. _Omnes._ Excellent. _Tuc._ Super Super-excellent Reuellers goe, proceede you Masters of Arte in kissing these wenches, and in daunces, bring you |2070| the quiuering Bride to Court, in a Maske, come Crumboll, thou shalt Mum with vs; come, dogge mee skneakes-bill. _Hor._ O thou my Muse!